


Rooftops

by Crashdiamond



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers AU, Bucky is stupid paranoid, Bucky reminisces on being tortured a lot, Found Family AU, Hydra mention, New York, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Platonic Relationship, Protective Bucky, Queens, Red Skull mention, Spidey Sense, crappy Apartment buidlings, father/son relationship, marvel AU, rooftops are good, they don’t fuck that’s disgusting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 16:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19834429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crashdiamond/pseuds/Crashdiamond
Summary: Peter Parker has had the weight of the world on his shoulders. His world, at least. The emotional baring of it is a lot for a teenager to handle, especially with the baggage of balancing being Spider-Man, a student, bullied, and losing Uncle Ben. He often swings through the night, trying to clear his mind. He ends up on the same rooftop of the same sketchy apartment building numerous times a week.What he doesn’t know is that a certain ex-Hydra weapon lives in that building, and he is incredibly aware of the boy. He’s not threatened by him, no, but he sees something familiar in him. Grief. He can’t quite place it but seeing a scrawny boy breaking down in the middle of New York sparks something in the back of his mind.





	1. Company

Since being free from his handlers, Bucky had tried to start a new life in the States. He wanted to remain in New York, but maybe being in Brooklyn was a little too close to home for his fragile brain, yet. 

_ Steve _ lives there. They grew up there,  _ together _ . He couldn’t remember everything about it, but he could remember certain sounds, smells, and touches. He could hear a faint laugh from his friend. No, his  _ former _ friend. They weren’t friends anymore, not in this life. James Buchanan Barnes and Steven Grant Rogers were best friends a lifetime ago, but that’s exactly what it was.

_ A lifetime ago. _

He wanted to stay in a semi-familiar area though, hoping that not being too far away would jog his memory eventually. He’d also hoped that it was a safe distance away from his childhood friend, so that they were unlikely to run into each other, on the rare occasion that Bucky would be out and about in broad daylight. He decided that Queens would be safe enough. Plenty of shady, run-down apartment buildings for him to choose from to call his home. There was a plethora of tall buildings for him to perch from and watch over the general vicinity of his hunkered-down abode, just in case  _ they _ found him again. He wanted to be one step ahead of them. He always wanted to try his damnedest to have the upper hand against his captors. He refused to be their puppet anymore. He may not remember most of his past life, but he was determined to start over and make a new one.

One that  _ they _ couldn’t control. 

It didn’t take Bucky long to settle into his shoddy apartment on 46th Street, seeing as he didn’t have very many personal effects. He had a decent sized black hiking backpack that contained a change of clothes, a journal, a canteen, and an incredibly sharp pocket knife, just in case something happened to the Bowie knife on his hip. After organizing his things and going through his hand-written notes inside the journal, he took a look around the apartment.

‘Apartment’ was a generous term; he had a bedroom, a closet, and a larger room that contained enough space for an old beaten-up couch and a kitchenette behind it. It wasn’t much, but now, it was home. 

_ Home. _

The word struck a nerve. His skull started to fill with excruciating pain.

_ “Let’s talk about your home. Not Romania, certainly not Brooklyn. No. I mean your  _ real _ home.” _

Bucky dropped to his knees and clutched his head. He let out a strangled cry as the blip of a memory pierced his brain like needles. 

Second-long images flashed into his mind like a slideshow of all of the sins he committed. He remembered each and every single one of them as he saw the lights go out in their eyes. He clamped his teeth down, almost hard enough to break them. He slid down from his sitting position to a curled up fetal-like position on the floor.

  
  


He lay on the floor for what felt like hours until his brain settled down slightly, enough for him to be aware of his surroundings. He pushed himself up off of the floor and took a few deep breaths. He decided that maybe taking a walk around the perimeter would help him clear his mind a bit. He figured that leaving his apartment in such a vulnerable state might not be his brightest idea, but he didn’t quite care at that moment. He descended the creaky staircase and exited the building quickly and quietly. 

He strolled down the street, trying not to look incredibly suspicious. He knew that his sturdy build gave off a rather intimidating vibe, causing most passers-by to leave him to his own devices. 

He passed by various shops, memorizing their names and exterior appearances. He probably passed three or four electronics stores, each having neon colored posters taped to the windows, advertising the newest smartphone phone models and sales on laptops. The idea of a smartphone freaked him out. He wasn’t quite sure how they worked, but he knew that there were GPS trackers in them.  _ They _ might be able to find him, should he ever get his hands on one. He vowed to himself not to.

After walking three miles both to the left and right of his apartment complex, the sun was starting to go down and the sky was beginning to darken. 

Though he had been walking around for about 2 hours, give or take, he still didn’t trust his mind to be alone in that tiny apartment. A new perspective, quite literally, dawned on him as he approached said building. 

_ The roof. _

He made his way to the top of the building via the fire escape and took in the view. There were hundreds and hundreds of little lights around him, causing the night sky to glow faintly. Being on top of the roof made him feel more at ease, more free, as if being a runaway from a secret Nazi agency wasn’t freedom enough. 

  
  


Bucky made a habit of visiting the rooftop every night after work, and stay there until the sun began to come up. He landed a job in a sketchy warehouse, unloading cargo off of trucks during overnight shifts. His coworkers were about as suspicious-looking as he was. No one questioned his brooding aura nor the singular long sleeved glove he wore. They also never questioned the fact that he’d ignore any injury he sustained on the job.

He was on his way up to his usual roosting spot when he noticed something unusual.

There was a form propped up on the ledge- no, a person. A young man, maybe still a teenage boy? Bucky slowly got closer to the kid, debating whether or not he was a threat. As he shortened the distance between them, he could hear a familiar sound. 

_ Sniffling. _

The kid had either been crying or was right in the middle of it. From Bucky’s perspective, he could see the kid had a backpack with him, but not like his large military-esque one. It was more like a school bag. The item alone confirmed just how young he was. He could also see the kid’s legs dangling over the ledge of the building, but he seemed to have to intention of going any further than that. 

_ He’s not a threat to me, but not quite a threat to himself either,  _ Bucky noted. 

As he inches closer to the sobbing boy, he could identify some of the physical features of him. He seemed kind of scrawny, almost lanky. He had sandy brown hair that stuck out at odds and ends. His attire was unusual for someone his age. Bucky had seen enough teenagers running around to know what that specific age group usually wore, but a skintight full-body suit wasn’t one of them. 

The former human weapon could barely make out the grumbled words that left the boys mouth, which were distorted by physical grief.

“I don’t even know what I’m d-doing anymore… Aunt M-May, she doesn’t deserve this kind of dramatic b-bullshit!” 

Bucky was confused for a moment. Was the kid talking to  _ him? _ Did he know he was there? 

In his stunned moment of silence, the kid perked up like a spooked deer and listened very carefully. Bucky slipped out of sight and ducked down. Had he made the slightest noise? 

The kid turned around and looked around the roof of the building. No one was there. He sighed, looked around at the city view one last time from his spot on the ledge, and stood up. Bucky’s heart launched itself into his throat. Surely, there was no way this kid was going to jump. The kid took one foot off of the ledge and dropped, plummeting down to the earth. 

The mortified soldier had seen people die before, in many more brutal ways than suicide, but he was just a  _ kid _ . He bolted to the edge of the rooftop, but when he got there, there wasn’t a crime scene-worthy death at the bottom. 

_ Where did he go? _

Bucky stood at the ledge in shock for a handful of long moments before going back down to his apartment for the night. He wasn’t entirely sure what he saw, but he blamed it on the fact that his brain was currently in the form of scrambled eggs.

For the next few nights, Bucky was on high alert as he made his way up to the rooftop. He wasn’t sure if that kid would be there again and he was hellbent on making sure he wouldn’t be put in a position that would endanger himself or the boy.

Upon arriving to the top, no one was there. His hiding spot sat vacant, waiting for him.


	2. Red Handed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky finally makes his presence known as he sits down next to the fragile looking boy on the ledge. Not a word is spoken, no names were shared. They just sat in each other’s company and stared into the night.

Bucky didn’t see the kid again after that one night for a good while, and then he saw the same lanky form perched on the ledge. This time, there was no sniffling or tears. Just silence. 

Once again, Bucky silently inched closer and closer to the kid. He may have not been crying, but the sadness in his face stood out like a neon sign. The kid seemed to be lost in his thoughts. Bucky made sure that he wouldn’t make a single sound that might alert the boy of his presence, which he had apparently done last time. 

He felt bad for him. He had no idea what he was going through, but he still felt for the kid. Seeing the depressed teenager reminded him of someone he used to know. 

_ “We looked for you after. My folks wanted to give you a ride to the cemetery.” _

_ He walked alongside a scrawny teenage boy. They were both dressed in suits.  _

_ “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just- I kinda wanted to be alone,” the boy said, his voice barely above a whisper. _

_ There was a pause.  _

_ “How was it?” _

_ “It was okay. She’s next to dad.” His response sounded more lifeless than the last. _

_ Another pause. _

_ “I was gonna ask-“ _

_ The smaller boy cut him off before he could finish speaking.  _

_ “I know what you’re gonna say, Buck. It’s just-” He said, not knowing how to verbally communicate what he was feeling. _

Buck. That’s what his old friend used to call him. It was a nickname derived from his middle name, Buchanan. 

_ “We can put the couch cushions on the floor, like when we were kids. It’ll be fun! All you gotta do is maybe… shine my shoes and take out the trash. Come on,” he goaded. _

_ But this wasn’t fun. Nothing about this current situation was fun. Even the sky was dark and gloomy today, like it somehow knew.  _

_ Steve fumbled with the belongings in his pockets, sighing as he struggled to find his house key. Bucky shoved an old brick to the side, producing a spare key from underneath it. He was concerned for his friend. How would he make it if he can barely let himself into his own home? _

_ “Thank you, Buck,” he spoke. “But I can get by on my own.” _

_ Bucky sighed as he handed him the spare key. _

_ “The thing is,” he paused, watching his words carefully. He didn’t want to offend Steve by hunting that he was unfit to take care of himself. “You don’t  _ have _ to. I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, pal.”  _

The kid was grieving a loss, most likely someone very near and dear to his heart. He couldn’t remember if  _ Bucky  _ had ever experienced that kind of emotional grief, but he knew damn well that The Asset was never allowed such human emotions. He was allowed  _ actions,  _ if that. He was allowed to eat, drink, and the occasional shower/bath (if that particular mission required it after the target had been taken out).

He was rarely allowed to sleep. When he was out on missions that would last several days, that would be the only time he would get some shut eye, but his paranoia and ever-violent mind would never let him truly sleep. Hydra made sure that when he returned to them, he wasn’t allowed such bliss. Every time he was worked on, tortured, or modified, he was awake. He could feel everything. Every single time they wiped his mind, he could  _ feel _ the memories leaving his brain, as if they actually had some sort of physical properties to them. 

The first time they erased his memories was the only time he was unconscious. He couldn’t recall what had happened, but it would have been the most excruciating emotional pain. His entire life would be wiped clean from his mind and he wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing to stop it. His entire life  _ was _ wiped clean from him and he couldn’t do a damn thing. He knows that something is missing, that they tampered with his brain at some point or another. His handlers had never discussed what was done to him in front of him, but they would discuss the procedures done to others in his presence. He could only assume he got the same treatment. 

Every now and again, now that he was on his own, something small would strike a nerve and reverberate as a memory. Sometimes the memories were wickedly vivid and sometimes they were just words, phrases or emotions. 

The “something small” this go-round was actually  _ something small.  _ That boy. He had the wildest urge to be near the boy, in some sort of attempt to comfort him. He hated seeing this kind of emotional anguish on the kid from his past, and he hated seeing it now. 

He slowly stood from the spot where he was crouched and made his way over to the ledge. 

As he approached, he scuffed his feet on the cement of the roof, allowing the boy to be aware of his presence. The boy’s head whipped around at the sound as he took in the sight of the intimidating man before him. Neither of them said a word as the larger man sat down on the ledge near him, about 10 feet to his right. He didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, he just wanted to provide some silent company. 

Bucky didn’t make eye contact with the boy, even though he could clearly see big doe eyes staring at him in shock but also in wonder. 

  
  


The boy was stunned at the sudden appearance of such a menacing looking man. Was he a villain? An enemy of his, or something? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t feel like he was in danger as he sat a safe distance away from the stranger, but he also wasn’t about to get comfortable and let his guard down. 

He studied the man next to him, taking note of his nearly-shoulder length hair and gloved arm. His hair didn’t look dirty or greasy, so he appeared to be well taken care of. His body was incredibly built and muscular, and he could probably pop the boy’s head clean off of his shoulders if he really wanted to. 

He didn’t look homeless or malnourished, but he looked  _ hollow. _

He hadn’t met too many people like that, especially not ones willing to sit on an old crumbling apartment building rooftop. Typically, when the people he’d met looked as hollow as the burly stranger next to him, that meant trouble. But the stranger never caused any. 

The two never mentioned any names, greetings, or even a mutual acknowledgement that the other was there. The muscular stranger honestly seemed to pretend that the kid wasn’t even  _ there _ . He began to wonder if the strange, silent man perched on the ledge next to him could even  _ see _ him. His next thought trailed along the lines of wondering if he was even in his right mind enough to  _ know _ that he was there.

He didn’t know what kind of pain and trauma this man had been through, but god, if he had, he might run, screaming. 

The boy had no idea why this man was sitting next to him, like it was the most normal thing in the world. He came up to this specific rooftop when he wanted to think, to be alone, to let his mind wander in a place where there wasn’t as much pain as there is now. 

Eventually, the boy stopped his concerned staring when he felt that the man next to him didn’t pose as a threat. His Spidey Sense wasn’t going off its rocker so, he figured that was a good sign. He picked back up where he left off, staring out into the city and resuming his daydream-esque world where life didn’t hurt so much. 

Bucky could sense that the boy was confused about his presence on the rooftop. Hell,  _ he  _ was confused about his presence. He knew what kind of vibes he gave off, and it surely wasn’t ones that were good for comforting. He couldn’t explain why he wanted to sit next to the kid and let him know that, physically, he’s not alone. He knew it had something to do with someone rather important from his past, but that was about it.

As far as he was concerned, Hydra has sapped his brain from any sort of strong feelings of sentiment, sympathy, and  _ especially _ empathy. Hydra had taken  _ everything  _ from him, and the very thought of it made him clench his teeth. He figured it was hard enough to crack at least one of the pearly whites in his mouth, but it never happened. He was quite thankful for that, he figured it might spook the already-skittish boy.

Hydra and the Red Skull made him do some terrible things in his past. There were a lot of lives taken by his hand and, dear god, there was so much  _ red  _ on his hands. Sometimes he felt that he could still see the crimson staining on his hands, if his brain was particularly fucked up that day. No matter how many times he scrubbed his hands raw, it was still there. 

So he decided soap and water wasn’t the way to rid himself of it, but maybe this was. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So holy mother of god this fic has gotten way more hits than any of my others??? So @ y’all Peter lovers thirsty for some feel-good shit after Endgame, welcome in! 
> 
> Also please check out my other works! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These quarantine times do be allowing me to brainstorm shit for my dusty old fics huh 
> 
> Anyways enjoy! This is dedicated to those who have left comments recently, inspiring me to pick this fic back up :)

The two sat next to each other on that particular building for what felt like hours. The boy traveled so far into his thoughts that he could barely sense the world around him. He was so far gone that he didn’t even notice that his quiet companion had left until he was already out of sight.

He had never spoken to the man before, never met him, nor had he even seen him before, but something about his silent presence made him feel at ease. He felt safe and protected. He felt as if nothing could hurt him as his mind left the world for a little while as he wandered through his own thoughts.

His thoughts. That’s what brought him to this ledge every night.

Typically, one’s thoughts bringing them to a ledge results in something very painful and blood curdling. This was not Peter’s case. He just wanted an escape. A mental escape. There were so many pent-up emotions and feelings inside of him and he wasn’t at all sure how to get them out. Everything had happened so fast, it almost felt like a dream.

_ The house was eerily quiet. It was approximately 10:42pm, and Peter was awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind was racing with thoughts of everything teenage boys didn’t think about. _

_ He was different now. He had powers. Powers that teenage boys absolutely did not have. Powers that nobody had, to his knowledge, and that scared the hell out of him. There was no pre-written knowledge, no instructions, and certainly no manual for his newly-found traits. He was always different among his peers, but this feeling was unlike any kind of loneliness he’d felt before. Most of the guys his age were into sports and paying attention to the ranks of popularity, but he spent his late nights rebuilding any sort of electronic he could get his hands on. _

_ But now, as if he needed another reason to constantly be looking over his shoulder, he was sensing things he’d never noticed before, shooting strings from his hands, and climbing on walls and celings. _

_ Boys his age didn’t have thoughts about anything like this. _

_ As his mind continued whirring and running wild, there was a crash downstairs. He jolted upright and strained his hearing. A bump. Another crash. _

_ He threw his sheets off himself and crept out of bed, careful not to make any noise, just in case. As he tiptoed to his bedroom door, his heart rate increased, and he dreaded whatever awaited him. _

_ He inched the door open, only to be met with Uncle Ben hiding Aunt May behind him. Peter’s door creaked ever so slightly, catching Ben’s attention. His head whipped around and he met his nephew’s gaze. Ben forcefully waved his arms, signaling for Peter to get back to his room. _

_ “Stay in your room,” he mouthed. Peter nodded. _

_ Aunt May clutched the doorframe and placed a hand over her mouth, watching Ben descend the staircase. _

_ Peter fought with himself as he watched. He had powers now, he could help! But he’ll be the first to admit that he was scared. The boy had no earthly idea how his powers worked, or if he could actually be considered helpful. Would he just get in the way? What if it was nothing and he revealed his powers for no reason? Aunt May would flip if she knew that her nephew could possibly be a threat to her or anyone else. _

_ Was he a threat to his family? _

_ He was brought out of his self-induced trance as the sound of an altercation broke out. Grunts and groans came from downstairs, causing Aunt May to retreat further into the shadows casted from the doorframe. Peter ran across the hall into the bedroom, ready to protect May and comfort her. Amidst the panic, the sound they both feared the most rang out. _

_ A gunshot. _

_ Peter bolted out of the room and down the stairs, adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins. He could barely make out the sounds of Aunt May crying and shouting after him. The sight that he was met with halfway down the stairs was one that would be ingrained in his mind for years to come, if not for the rest of his life. _

_ Ben was stumbling and had a hand pressed to the right side of his chest. His strength was leaving him gradually. The gunman seemed stunned, almost frozen in place. Peter sped down the remaining steps and rushed to his uncle, just as he lost the strength to stand. The two collapsed in a pile to the floor as the masked intruder ran out of the house. Peter applied pressure to the gunshot as he searched his uncle’s eyes, hoping for any sign that he would be ok. His mouth was so dry, he could barely form the words exploding in his mind like alarms. _

_ “M-may! Aunt May! I- We need help! Call someone, please!” _

_ She ran towards the two with tears streaming down her face. She shuffled to the landline on the wall as quickly as her house slippers would take her, dialing 911. _

His uncle Ben died in his arms that night, minutes before the ambulance arrived. The paramedics tried to do everything they could to save him, but Ben wasn’t in the best of health to begin with for his age, causing complications during his attempt at resuscitation.

The sound of a throat clearing brought Peter out of reliving that godawful memory. He nearly lurched off of the ledge he’d been perched on, but his grip kept him safe.

He looked to his right, where his silent companion sat, with yet another stoic look across his face. Peter was always good at reading people, but this man had the outer emotional capacity of a cinderblock. He felt that there was more to the eye than that, but this was not the time to try to over-analyze a stranger.

Said stranger fixed his gaze on something next to Peter. The boy looked down to see a water bottle with a flimsy gas station receipt curled around it. His eyes widened as he looked back up at the shoulder length brunet man next to him.

“I-is this for me?” Peter asked, his voice cracking as he spoke.

The stranger nodded, and looked at the setting sun over the city, hoping to give the kid a sense of privacy to compose himself. The two realized this was the first time either of them had spoken words to the other. Bucky knew he was a very quiet individual to begin with, but he hoped that didn’t come off as alarming. He knew that the kid was different, he could sense it. The kid would be able to tell if Bucky was a threat or not.

He felt that he should maybe say something to the kid. He contemplated asking if he was ok.

Bucky always acknowledged that he was quiet. Well. He was quiet  _ now.  _ He had a gut feeling that he was quite the chatterbox in his previous life.

_ Previous life. _

What an odd way to put that. It was still technically the same life. He may have been mentally and physically torn apart piece by painful piece, only to be glued back together in a way that a child would slam puzzle pieces together that don’t fit. Still the same life, right? Did he actually know if he had died before? Was he  _ capable  _ of dying?

That wasn’t the point right now. He could sulk and contemplate his own mortality at a later date. Right now, his main priority was making sure this kid was ok, or  _ trying  _ to, at least.

Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but the boy beat him to any words he would’ve said.

“I just feel so…  _ lost _ .”

He stared blankly into the city view in front of him. The soldier next to him was once again at a loss for words. Thankfully, the kid was just willing to ramble.

“Have you ever lost someone and then you felt so incomplete without them? Like they were basically the foundation of your whole existence? You ever felt like that?” He ranted, talking at a mile a minute.

Peter was mentally and emotionally a wreck, and has been for a while. He had difficulties paying attention in class and remembering what day it was. This loss was singlehandedly the most traumatic thing the young boy had ever had to experience.

All Bucky ever knew was loss. No one in his life stuck around for long, whether they wanted to or not. It was basically inevitable, and he completely knew the feeling his new acquaintance was referring to. He was all too familiar with it, actually.

“Sometimes…” he started, his voice raspy from lengthy lack of communication. “Sometimes, the world only knows loss. And that’s why we should treasure every second while it’s here.”

**Author's Note:**

> We’re just rolling with it, y’all.


End file.
